Only Hope
by purple.skivvy
Summary: A reworking of the scene where Gemma uses magic to force Simon to dance with her much to the dismay of Lord Denby. From Lucy Fairchild’s POV. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: Libba Bray owns the Gemma Doyle Trilogy. Every single part of it. **

**Miss Fairchild's Guide to Society**

There are three simple rules to remember when attending a ball.

One. As soon as you step through those majestic double doors, let your eyes sweep over the entire ball room but do not take in anything as of yet.

Two. Smile politely at each and every person you meet. Appear cordial and betray nothing because they're always watching for any flaws to surface.

Three. Observe your surroundings without making eye contact. This is very important for you must avoid meeting the eyes of that wealthy widow's son who knows exactly what he wants but doesn't have a clue in the world as to how to obtain it because he's too busy lumbering along by his mother's side because he's ridiculously dependent.

**…**

As soon as the heel of my boot hits the ballroom floor, I can hear the rustling of papers. My eyes take in the ornate ceiling in blurred detail. I feel my escort grip my arm firmly as she steers me away from the gathering crowd who are desperate for some sort of comment, anything, upon my arrival. I feel like a debutante. Unsteady on my feet. Wary of my surroundings. And far, far too eager for my own good.

I attempt to focus on my mission for the night which is to gain the approval of all the women I meet and charm the gentlemen with my wit and "good humour". I have practiced, toiled and troubled and I do so hope that I will be satisfactory because it's no fun repeating certain phrases over and over again in a particular tone of voice. It's like running through lines for a theatrical production, with much less vigour and passion.

As my escort leads me towards a gentlemen who owns various portions of land, pastures far and wide and possibly a quarter of the ocean (According to my escort the achievements of these "elites" should not be underestimated and I must regard them most highly) I notice Felicity Worthington leaning against a column, revealing more cleavage than a courtesan.

She glances my way, only briefly because she's perfected the art of rule number three. She doesn't attempt to beguile me to push through the boundaries of society to join her so that I can become part of her world. Because a world without Simon Middleton is very much a world that I will never want to be a part of.

I notice a girl walking briskly through the crowd, her escort trailing behind her. I recognize her as Marie Clare, an affluent banker's daughter whom I had met at Hyde Park. As expected she takes my hands and says that she's delighted to see me again and I smile and nod in a mechanical manner.

I'm no longer listening to her critique of dresses or how splendid a tea party she attended the day before was, because Simon Middleton has entered the main ballroom below, accompanied by a few acquaintances.

It's hard to deny the girlish excitement which bubbles through me, as if I've read something risqué or forbidden in a two pence novel, as soon as I see him. Even though I was expecting him I am always taken by surprise because anticipation and waiting leaves too much room for uncertainty.

Marie decides to lead me to the main ballroom right on cue. She links her arm through mine and she seems to be in a cheerier mood than before. I suppose I'm not the only one looking out for Simon Middleton as I feel her almost bounding along with excitement beside me.

Suddenly, Marie stops and draws me closer to her so that I have a perfect view of the ballroom floor.

This could divide society. This would also make some excellent gossip.

I hear the rustling of papers.

I hear the scratching of pens.

They're writing stories.

They're distorting facts.

They're carving lies.

"Miss Fairchild".

Even Marie's whisper sounds loud and clear like the shattering of glass, or the screeching of old machinery in need of repair. The sound of her voice is too distinct and I can't seem to escape from it.

Hundreds of thoughts race through my mind. Was he using me as a decoy to make Gemma Doyle jealous so that she'll beg him for another betrothal? Has he chosen a mistress already prior to our engagement? What will become of my reputation in that newspaper column which can either ruin someone or hail them as the most esteemed figure in society? How could I be so foolish? Why couldn't I foresee this?

I need to know the truth so I decide to find that mahogany door which will lead me straight to it. I don't care if he's cornered girls in that room. Or woken up in the morning with his acquaintances sprawled all around the room because they've all nodded along to the rhythm of the green fairy. All I know is that I will only pursue something if I'm sure that I am on the right path because I trust my instinct with all my might.

I push the door open and quietly close it behind me with a gentle click. I wish everything could be simplified just like that but I'm too involved to either let go or give up.

He's sitting in a chair facing the window. I walk over towards him and he refuses to break his gaze, like he's been hypnotized and hasn't returned to reality.

I sink to the ground in front of him and watch my dress spread out around me and I feel like I'm drowning in a puddle of silk. GHAfter a moment, he decides to take my hands in his and I can feel them trembling because he's waiting for me to recoil from his touch. But I don't. I wait for him to calm down, to regain consciousness, because he seems to be as shaken as I am.

It's so strange, yet peaceful sitting here in near darkness as the light from the street lamps can't touch us and the moon watches over us, keeping us safe from the rest of the world. Giving us time to think so that we can make our own decisions for once.

This is what I know. As I slip away from him and walk over to the bookshelves to locate his bottle of absinthe I notice it's filled to the brim and the green fairy struggles inside. She hasn't been let out once tonight. Perhaps not in days or weeks even.

"It is magic", I whisper.

I realize that for just one moment Miss Doyle has taken everything away from me. But she's kept her promise. As she passed me in the hallway earlier in the evening, looking apologetic and slightly vulnerable I noticed a look of pleading in her eyes. If I could just give her one chance to wield her magic or do what she must, she'll do whatever she can to make everything _better_ when she gives it back to me.

He lets go of my hands and slides onto the floor so that he's sitting across from me. After a while he reaches his hand towards my face and as soon as I feel the warmth of it it's like his hand loses all feeling and immediately drops to his side. He shakes his head and helps me up. It pains him to touch me now because something's changed.

He too is trying to reach through the bars of society. Those cast iron bars which separate us. Even when we're meant to be courted, engaged or married those irons bars will still be there because they don't want us to feel anything. Just a certain sense of duty which will either destroy or ostracize us if we don't fulfill it. But I've given up on living in a caricature and so has he.

"Miss Fairchild. We're going to show them that there's more to this than there ever can be".

This is some twisted declaration of love. Poignant, yet wretched because it's all we have left.

* * *

**A/N: I can't think of any names for a Simon and Lucy pairing. I think they're lovely together but all I can come up with is "Lumon" which doesn't sound as perfect as Karma and probably doesn't even come close to (I can't believe I'm going to mention this) Reneesme.**

**Loves reviews and would like to hear some suggestions of bad name pairings to add to the list**

**purple skivvy**


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